


Foreshadowing (formerly 'Violinist's Fingers)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set sometime around that first episode. When people are exhausted their shields are down, and in the dark hours of the morning things can be said that wouldn't belong under the light of day. Sherlock/John pre-slash or gen depending on your leanings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreshadowing (formerly 'Violinist's Fingers)

**Author's Note:**

> Transferred from Viridian-Violet at LJ, because I'm finally migrating. *waves fist at LJ*
> 
> Original Note: Answer to a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic - 'Sherlock/John. Hurt/Comfort. John's leg cramps up or hurts badly after running around the city with Sherlock'.  
> Cross posted at sherlockbbc_fic - http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=47423#t47423

By the time they're almost back at Baker Street, just turning the corner, John is beginning to tire. It's been a long day – a series of long days and short, broken nights – and his body is suddenly reminding him very forcibly that he's been walking with a cane and limp for some time now. He grits his teeth and bears it, but the damp and and late hour are conspiring against him, the muscles in his thigh and calf twisting painfully. He knows full well that the pain is purely of his own causing – psychosomatic it may have been, but a limp is a limp. For weeks, he's been twisting his muscles into stiff, unnatural arrangements, and now he's paying the price. A rooftop chase might have provided the distraction he needed to let go, but it didn't do his abused muscles any favours.

And damn it, Sherlock is _watching _him, with that intent, all-knowing expression glittering behind his eyes.__

John coughs discreetly into his hand, tries very hard not to limp, and gestures to Sherlock to precede him through the door into the welcoming light and warmth of Baker Street. The knowledge that there is a bed – downstairs or up, he doesn't even care anymore - waiting, warm and dry and yielding, leaves him longing for nothing more than to crawl beneath clean sheets and close his eyes. He is exhausted.

Later, he blames his exhaustion as the reason his iron control slips. His leg twists and buckles, and he crumples forward, swearing, into Sherlock's back. The detective twists quickly, managing to lower them to the floor more gracefully than a free-tumble, but they still end up sprawled across the doorway.  
'Sorry, sorry - ' John grits out, trying to stagger to his feet. Sherlock curls his hands around John's forearms and stops him, settling him back against the wall as he untangles himself and stands.  
'Calm down.' he says, and behind the insufferable (and permanent) smug expression is something gentler. 'Wait a second.'  
He closes the door behind him and locks it, then carefully slides his hands beneath John's arms and half-lifts him to his feet with a strength that belies his slim frame. John clenches his jaw and allows the other man to steer him slowly up the stairs and push him back into the sagging armchair beside the ancient fireplace. He closes his eyes, perfectly willing to sleep here – it's warm, and comfortable, and better than many places he has spent restless nights before. But cold fingers are rolling up his jeans, pushing them up until the cuff rests above his knee, and carefully tracing the faded, white scar that bisects his calf in a winding, knotted curve.  
'So I was right.' Sherlock says, self-satisfied. 'Not entirely psychosomatic. But close.'  
John rolls his eyes at the ceiling, and forces himself to wake up a little. 'Shrapnel, from an IED. Same day I was shot. It healed with no trouble, but...well. Stupid, really. A bullet to the shoulder is a bit more serious than a shrapnel graze.'  
Sherlock shrugged. 'Psychosomatic. It doesn't have to make sense.'  
He runs his fingers gently over the tight, aching muscle. 'You've done it more harm than good by limping so unnaturally, though. It's just cramp. The muscle isn't used to jumping from roof to roof.'  
'I know.' John replies wearily. 'Can I remind you that I'm the doctor here?. Honestly.'  
Sherlock flashes him a look from beneath his dark curls that says 'humour me' and John shuts up. He tilts his head back against the chair and relaxes, even as long, slender fingers return and begin to massage deep, soothing circles into his calf. Calluses on Sherlock's fingertips speak of a polished wooden bow and the strings of a violin. His touch is hesitant, untried, but well-meaning and comforting, unknotting twisted flesh and encouraging blood to flow back to its rightful place. For the first time since he had stepped forward with a cane in his hand, John feels the deep, throbbing ache begin to fade, chased away by the strong, sweeping touch of this strange, brilliant man who kneels before him, eyes dark and glittering, absolutely intent on the patterns his fingertips dance across John's skin.  
Sherlock glances up at him, his fingers never ceasing their slow, curving passes across the white scar. John meets his eyes, stare for stare, and tries to ignore the way his mouth has gone dry.  
'You are most confusing.' Sherlock says suddenly. His voice is pitched low, a faint crease furrowing the skin between his eyes. He examines John like the man is a puzzle he needs to solve – has to solve, has to take apart and put back together, only better and fixed – and John swallows.  
'Good.' he rasps. 'I'd hate for you to get bored.'

 _If you don't get bored, then maybe this - whatever this is – will last._

Sherlock's mouth lifts at the corner, a wry, self-deprecating twist. 'Already, you know me well.'  
He bends his head back to the pattern of his hands, and John breathes out slowly, released from the burning intensity of a sociopath's gaze. He closes his eyes again and this time they do not open until some ungodly hour, still dark, prised apart by the sound of the low, throbbing dirge of a violin. He blinks them clear enough to see the Sherlock by the window, shirt hanging loose from his slim shoulders, curls tousled and astray, the bow sweeping up and across the strings, long fingers dancing over the neck, pinching this string, pressing that, capture and release of notes. He watches for a long, sleepy moment, until Sherlock blinks and looks away from the glass, the violin's song dropping to a murmur and lullaby.  
'Go back to sleep, John.' he says quietly, and John does. The last thing he hears before he sinks back into the blessedly peaceful darkness is Sally Donovan's voice, bitter and angry against the violin's song – _Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. _  
And as his eyes slide shut again, he thinks, dazedly – _'Far too late for that.' _____


End file.
